Mr. Richards, still very coldly: “Thank you.”
Miss Galbraith: “I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen; you’re perfectly lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if you knew you had wounded my feelings, however accidentally.” She droops her head so as to catch a sidelong glimpse of his face, and sighs, while she nervously pinches the top of her parasol, resting the point on the floor. Mr. Richards makes no answer. “That about the cigar-case might have been a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it was certainly very kind and very creditable to—to your thoughtfulness. It was thoughtful!”
Mr. Richards: “I am grateful for your good opinion.”
Miss Galbraith: “But do you think it was exactly—it was quite—nice, not to tell me that your brother’s engagement was to be kept, when you know, Allen, I can’t bear to blunder in such things?” Tenderly, “Do you? You can’t say it was?”
Mr. Richards: “I never said it was.”
Miss Galbraith, plaintively: “No, Allen. That’s what I always admired in your character. You always owned up. Don’t you think it’s easier for men to own up than it is for women?”
Mr. Richards: “I don’t know. I never knew any woman to do it.”
Miss Galbraith: “Oh, yes, Allen! You know I often own up.”
Mr. Richards: “No, I don’t.”
Miss Galbraith: “Oh, how can you bear to say so? When I’m rash, or anything of that kind, you know I acknowledge it.”